


Ten Birthdays

by junebugrebellion



Category: Legend Series - Marie Lu
Genre: Also fluff, Angst, F/M, Post-Champion, alcohol mention, angst is definitely a thing that happes, epilogue expansion, eventual dune I swear it, what even is Anden's last name, will add more tags later if needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junebugrebellion/pseuds/junebugrebellion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I celebrate most of my birthdays without too much trouble."</p>
<p>Or, ten years of June getting older, getting wiser, getting closer to Metias and desperation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I celebrate most of my birthdays without too much trouble. On my eighteenth, I joined Anden, a couple of Senators, Pascao and Tess, and several former Drake classmates for a low-key dinner at a rooftop lounge in Ruby sector.” -Champion, Marie Lu

June is endlessly thankful for the quiet seclusion of this particular restaurant. She isn’t sure if she can take the constant pressure and probing of the press tonight.  The lights are low, and the staff has been sworn to secrecy through extensive bribery. Access to the roof, where the breeze gently tousles her hair, has been heavily restricted. She has approved the guest list on four different occasions.

Things still feel uneasy.

The dishes she orders are delightful, nostalgic; she and Metias had come here often, for special occasions. They would have dinner, order one of every dessert and share, eating until she declared that she could never think about sugar again. The leftovers were always gone by the next morning, June having raided them as soon as they were home.

But, Ruby no longer feels like home.

Anden had arranged the party for her, as a gift, as a thank-you. She hasn’t told him, but his insistence on planning her birthday has given her a quiet sense of loathing. The normalcy of organizing her own party would have been nice, would have gotten her mind off of the elephant in the room.

Tess and Pascao sit side-by-side, obviously confused by three forks and two glasses on the table. She would apologize to them later, maybe take them out for a meal at some place more personal. The Senators are subtlety uncomfortable with their fingers too tight around their glasses, as are her Drake alumni.

The sugar in the desserts already tastes sour.

Anden is smiling, though, and June decides that it’s a good thing. The Colonies have put stress on him as of late, and it’s good to see him smile. His grin might put the very beginnings of butterflies in her stomach, if grief stops overshadowing the night.

She almost expects to turn and find Metias laughing along with his alum, or Day telling some explicit story to Pascao and Tess. In the back of her mind, she decides that the two boys- men- most important to her would have liked each other. The thought brings a faint smile to her face.

"Tess to June, come in, June," says Tess from across the table. "You’re awful distant."

"I’ve never been one for birthday parties," she half-lies. She’s never been one for such big parties with awkward, pitiful glances. But, the parties she once had with Metias are a different story.

Tess crosses her arms and juts out her lower lip; Day’s influence on her is so evident, it’s cruel. “Then why’re you grinning?”

"Contrary to popular belief, I can have fun."

Tess gasps in horror.

With a wildfire grin, Pascao interjects, “She’s thinking ‘bout Blondie.”

"Or my brother."

Well, if June knows nothing else, she knows how to make everyone around her uncomfortable. 

She’s home by midnight, and she carries a necklace from Tess, a pair steel-toed boots from Pascao, gloves, scarves, joint presents, and a deep sense of longing and loss.


	2. Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My nineteenth happened on a boat in New York City, the Colonies’ rebuilt version of an old drowned city whose outskirts now slope gently into the Atlantic Ocean. I’d been invited to a party thrown for several international delegates from Africa, Canada, and Mexico.” -Champion, Marie Lu

New York City is a relic that June wishes the Colonies had never unearthed. It's humid and crowded and, for some reason, a meeting place for world powers.

The delegates vary from face to face, and June amuses herself with what she can tell from their mannerisms. The Canadian with the carefully stubbled beard is flirting with the waitress despite the band of skin paler than the rest around a finger on his left hand. It's a Mexican woman's first meeting; she has restless leg syndrome and checks her watch once every two minutes, thirty-three seconds. Two members of the African embassy are very close, either childhood friends or lovers if their proximity has anything to say.

She doesn't trust a single one further than she can throw them, which judging by their relaxation, would be a fair distance. She doesn't trust the boat. She doesn't trust the Colonies, and the admission feels good.

Just as she begins spiraling into distrusting blackness, Anden sits next to her. She suddenly becomes aware that she hasn't been tracking him as he's moved around the party; that's a mistake she can never make again.

He holds two glasses of neon pink punch and a golden gift bag, red and black ribbons curling around the handle. It's a gesture, a nod to the Republic and its colors, and June sends silent thanks to him. "Elector," she greets.

His eyes roll obscenely, and it pulls a smile from her.

"What? We're in professional company."

The exasperated look he gives her actually creates a small chuckle, the first since she's left Los Angeles. "I've had enough of 'professional company' for the night." He hands her a glass and the gift bag. "Happy birthday."

The gift bag is set aside as she swirls the drink. "Have you checked it?"

"Do you ever let your guard down?"

"Anden."

"June." He nods toward one of the Canadian delegates. "We can watch Ambassador Monroe. It's from a bowl, and he took some after me, though he may collapse for a... _different reason_."

She finds the ambassador and blows a puff of air through her nose. He's bumbling, trying to pretend that he isn't drunk out of his mind. "He doesn't want to be here."

"Does anyone?"

"Not what I meant. He didn't want to be a politician. You can tell by how he looks at the rest of us; he's disdainful. He talks to the wait staff more than his colleagues. He hates his job. That's probably why he drinks."

"You need to teach me how to do that," says Anden in wonder.

"It's simple."

"Then teach me."

"Do you see the waitress over there, next to Ambassador Aziz?” He cranes his neck, and she scolds, “Don't be so obvious about it."

"I see her."

"Why is she here?"

"She..." His brows furrowed in concentration. "She needs the money?"

"Yes, but why?"

"She has two children?"

"Nice try," she chuckled. "Look at her closely. What do you see?"

"She's got good skin."

"It's makeup."

"Her smile is forced."

"Good job."

He leans closer, squinting. "Are there bags under her eyes?"

"Yes, yes, tell me more about her eyes."

"They're... yellowed."

"Yes! Look at her skin, too."

"Pale?"

"Now, take everything, and put it together."

She can practically see the cogs in his brain turning, and his lips move by just a hair. "She's sick."

"Close. Drug addiction."

"What?" he asks, incredulous. "Then why is she here?"

June throws a gulp of the alcohol down her throat; a drug addict is little threat to her Elector. "Like you said, she needs the money."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to two certain friends, one for beta reading and one for endless support.
> 
> I just really like Anden and June. Their friendship is my jam.


	3. Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I spent my twentieth comfortably alone, watching a brief newscast about how Day’s brother Eden had graduated early from his academy in Antarctica, trying to catch a glimpse of how Day looked as a twenty-year-old, taking in news that he himself had been recruited by Antarctica’s intelligence agency.” -Champion, Marie Lu

Ollie is many things, but above all, he is the warmest thing June has ever known. He sits over her lap in bed, his tail thumping steadily as she scratches at the scruff of his neck.

"Show me Day," she growls at the screen across the room.

The feed is obsessed with Eden, and while it is nice to see that he is well, she can only stand so many shots of his grin as he smiles and waves. She's fairly sure that the newscast will be over in a few minutes. So, she lets herself be selfish since it's her birthday and she's home alone. "A little to the left, camera," she commands.

Eden wears the glasses she was aquatinted with during her trip to Antarctica. Idly, she wonders how many points he's racked up from the little game the country plays. His intelligence has likely given him a high score, even though the goodness in him is what the game focuses on. As June sits back, she tries to figure out in what way the system is rigged so that the elite still come out on top.

Ollie fell asleep a few minutes ago, but June still scratches at the top of his head as he snores.

It's good to see Eden smile. It would just be better if she saw Day smiling.

She catches a glimpse of Day's hair every few shots, and it infuriates her more, as if that's possible. "Just show me his face."

It's as if the Antarcticans hear her. The screen shifts to Day's face, close enough that June can just barely make out the ripple in his eye.

He's beautiful. The past few years have treated him well, and he's smiling- not the wildfire grin she remembers, but a real smile. His hair is pulled out of his face by a band, but a few strands still dangle in his face. It occurs to her that his skin looks so strangely stunning because she's used to his face being covered in dirt or blood. His lips are chapped, though, as they always have been, probably from biting away the skin. She can almost feel the uneven softness on her own lips.

_Oh, for god's sake, June._

But, to be honest, Day looks _so good_ in glasses.

The banner at the bottom of the screen tells her that he's going to work for the Antarctican government, and she nearly does a double-take. Day, Daniel Altan Wing, in a government job? Maybe things had changed much more than she thought. After all, Day is wearing a suit. It's off-putting, seeing him so clean-cut and professional. Any time he was dressed well in June's memory, he had a look of disgust on his face. Typically from Anden. The thought sends her smiling.

Part of her is living on the hope that he's regained his memory.

Of course, that theory sends her into a spiral of questions. If he remembers, how much is there, in his mind? Why hasn't he contacted her yet? Does he care about her? Does he want to? What are the limits of his memory? What has Eden told him? Why can't she just _let him go?_

Sure, she could ask Tess, but that feels wrong, feels like she still might love care about Day.

June does not do well dwelling on what ifs.

~~What if she hadn't let go of being Princeps-Elect? What if she acted on how Anden looked at her, kissed her hand? What if she had chosen to tell Day everything? What if Day was still here? What if Day's perfect score on the test had sent him to her ranks, her classes? What if she had just told him how she felt?~~

~~What if she had never met Day?~~

~~What if Metias hadn't died?~~

June does not do well dwelling on what ifs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just updating this from tumblr don't mind me


	4. Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My twenty-first birthday was an elaborate affair in Vegas, where Anden invited me to a summer festival and then ended up kissing me in my hotel room."

June holds herself to being honest, brutally so. “There’s a reason we wear white to funerals,” Metias used to say, “and there’s a reason they’re called white lies.” Candor proves advantageous when dealing with diplomacy or with the general public, as the truth typically breeds trust and loyalty, both of which endlessly useful and endlessly better than blood in the streets.

But, there are certain times when withholding information- not lying- is for the best, like when trying to negotiate a better deal with a trade partner, or when espionage is employed, or when performing an interrogation, or when the Elector looks much too attractive for his own good with glitter in his hair.

June has a passionate love-hate relationship with glitter. On one hand, it scatters everywhere and sticks with permanence. Opposite, it shimmers in the evening sunlight and sends Anden grinning and makes the darkness of his hair look like a galaxy of stars. As another cloud of golden dust is sent over the Las Vegas festival, Anden smiles wider at the crowd of civilians who practically fall to their knees to kiss his boots.

He somehow pushes them past that, past his father’s memory, and speaks to them like his equals. There’s something about him, about this boy-Elector, that puts people at ease. He begs for their negative comments to “help better our country.” June envies him and his sweetness; where he is soft, she is sharp. Where he provides peace, she puts people on edge. But, they somehow fit together in whatever label they are currently using to describe what they are to each other.

Despite some rumors, Anden is only human, and June can sense that he’s about to crumble ten minutes before he realizes it himself. At his nod to her, she and her troops quietly disperse the crowd. “Thank you,” he sighs when June is close enough to him.

“Of course, sir,” she replies, swallowing the smirk the title brings and assuming a salute. The militants under her command follow suit, though they do it out of respect. June uses the gesture as a joke; Anden has told her exactly one hundred and seventy-three times not to call him “sir” or “Elector.” She once called him “your grace,” and he refused to speak to her for two days.

“At ease,” he orders, and June catches the twinkle in his eyes before allowing her shoulders to sag. “Have you eaten, June? I haven’t seen you so much as drink since breakfast.”

Damn him and his concern for her. She had eaten at breakfast, a light muffin and citrus. Thirteen hundred meant standard guard outside while Anden dined with the Pinceps. There had been dinner plans to honor the festival coordinator, but a mutual decision to reschedule lead to June giving Anden the protein bars she kept in order to keep his blood sugar high during his festival appearance. “No, I haven’t.”

“Oh,” he says in the way that she’s learned means,  _How could I be so wrapped up in myself?_

“I’m fine,” she assures.

“How long has it been?”

“ _I’m fine_. I’ve kept myself busy, sir.”

“I can’t have you starving,  _ma’am._ ”

“I have responsibilities.”

“Try running a country.”

If there weren’t troops within earshot, June would have told him to shut up. “We need to disappear.”

"But, we haven’t gotten to enjoy the festival.”

“We disappear by blending in, not by leaving.” It takes her four seconds before barking into her comm, “The Elector needs something to hide his face. Something mundane for the festival. I suggest a mask or face paint. Report back in ten minutes or less. Squadron four-oh-two, you stay with me on crowd control.  _Now._ ”

Five members of the Republic’s army, not including June, stay within fifty feet of the Elector. Anden spots a few others dispersing into the festival, and June most definitely catches the look of utter awe Anden gives her. She most definitely does not blush.

One of the soldiers returns in six minutes with news of a face-painting stand with a non-existent line on the very edge of the festival. The art is, apparently, worthy of the Elector’s approval. Anden bites back a gag, asks for directions, and dismisses the troops.

“Did you just give orders to my militia?” asks June, arms crossed in front of her.

“I outrank you, Iparis. Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

***

“Excuse me, sir?”

June turns to find an older woman, her dark skin crinkled around the eyes. Anden turns, too, three and a half seconds later. The face-painting stand now has a small line, and this woman has apparently joined it.

She’s groveling, and June tries not to hate her for it. “Elector! I thought it was-”

June laughs and elbows Anden, her carton of cinnamon-sugared nuts jostling. “Stop being weird.” She then leans and speaks to the woman. “He gets mistake for the Elector so much, I think he’s going to start ordering me around. As if he doesn’t already.” She shoots him a playful grin, mentally begging him to play along with her act of teasing sweethearts.

“You never listen to me, though,” he retorts too stiffly, but it’s enough for the woman to smile through an excuse and go on her merry way.

It takes Anden a minute before grinning. “That was amazing,” he says with reverence. “You’re amazing.”

Wow, it sure seems hot outside. Maybe the festival coordinator has turned on hot air to be pumped through the streets. That must be it. “That’s nothing. Basic training.”

“But you… No hesitation. And you were so convincing!”

“It’s why you put me back in the field. I need to be convincing with you on the line.”

He wants to say something, and she can practically read it, but she shoves the thought away. He almost, almost opens his lips, but the artist shouts for the next in line before he can get any sound out. June pushes Anden into the makeup chair, forcing a grin.

***

When they walk the streets nearly three hours later, June holds a bag of candies and another satchel of souvenirs for friends back home, mostly for Tess. She had whined about not being able to come, and June is determined to make up for it. She has an urge to rub her face but reconsiders when she remembers the burning phoenix that loops around her right eye, its flaming tail snaking over her cheek.

She looks to Anden and the blue-black patch that has been painted over his eyes and forehead as a mask. Stars dot the dark makeup, planets shine on his eyelids, and a crescent moon hooks his left eye. The glitter in his hair does nothing to help.

He’s gorgeous.

He carries his own bags, mostly decks of cards and ornate chess pieces for his collections. She offered to take them, but he had insisted. June is not one to disobey her Elector.

“I’ll race you up the stairs,” he challenges once in their hotel lobby.

“You’ll lose,” she returns.

“Not if I have a…  _tactical advantage_.” He sprints before she can say anything snarky to reply, but she meets him seven floors up in time to see him collapse.

“Why are we… On the…  _Phew_ … The fifteenth floor?”

“Because you’re an important man,” she says, breathing calm as ever.

“If I’m so… Important,” he huffs, “why can’t I run?”

“You lack stamina training. I should fix that. Remind me.” She pulls him up to stand and walks to the nearest elevator.

He insists upon walking her to her room, she insists upon walking to his, he insists upon being a gentleman, she insists upon being in charge of his personal safety, he insists that the building has already been swept as she’s aware and that he’s the Elector and he does what he wants  _so there._

“Do you want a drink?” she asks after swiping her card and throwing her purchases on the queen bed.

“I’m fine,” he replies before digging out a small sachet from his goodies. “Come here.”

“Please, tell me it isn’t-”

“Happy birthday!” he cheers as he places the bag into her hand. She groans and opens it, a bracelet falling out. Rubies dot a golden chain in a simplistic, simple arrangement. “Nothing too flashy,” he says, cheeks reddening. “And rubies for Ruby Sector. And to match your eyes.”

Her heart beats a little faster. “Help me put it on?” she invites, extending her wrist.

He takes the chain- it isn’t delicate, and everything gets more sentimental by the minute- and loops it around her wrist. The clasp is a little difficult, but he manages. With subtle reluctance, he lets go of her hand as she twists her wrist, testing the weight of it.

“I love it,” she says softly.

And he kisses her.

His lips are soft, slightly chapped, and that’s all June can think about for the first second. Then comes the concern for their face paint. The third second wonders if this bracelet is just a bracelet or something else entirely. Fourth cries that this is so terribly wrong. Fifth replies that nothing’s ever been right. Sixth, he starts pulling away, starts apologizing, and she tugs him back because he’s Anden. He’s Anden, and he won’t hurt her, and he tastes like sugar and nothing like her last kiss; he had tasted of gunsmoke and revenge and rebellion and secrecy and-

That’s not important. She’s kissing the Elector, no, she’s kissing  _Anden_. And she is okay with that. And _that’s_  what’s important.

When he needs air, she lets him go, and he chuckles quietly, awkwardly,  _adorably_. “I’ve been, um, yeah.” The blush beneath the galaxy of his makeup is nearly intoxicating.

“I can tell,” she says, grinning.

“I’ll… I’ll see you in the morning? For breakfast?”

“Of course.”

His sheepishness is something she’s never known. She could get used to it. “Goodnight, Anden.”

“Goodnight, June.” As he turns to her door, he keeps looking back, grinning as if he can’t believe this has happened. She’s not blushing, she refuses to admit it. “Happy birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took so long and is super dialogue-heavy and goes against the most popular ship in the fandom  
> i apologize


End file.
